Into My Arms (24 page)

‘So otherwise she’s alright?’

‘She’ll be fine. They’ll keep her in hospital until she’s back to normal, but that’s not such a bad thing. Someone else can do the night feeds. Hamish is the one I really feel sorry for. He looks exhausted, poor man. I think he got the fright of his life . . .’

Arran brought the phone down against his chest and stared up into the night sky. His mother chattered on regardless, her voice vibrating across his skin; a man and woman walked hand in hand past the laneway, the woman’s heels tapping out a message against the pavement. An uncle, he thought with pleasure. The stars winked slyly against navy-blue silk, glittering like brooches in a woman’s hijab. He had always been saddened by the thought that he would not have children of his own, but now he was an uncle at least.

The first thing Arran noticed when he returned to the restaurant was that Ben and the fair-haired man were deep in conversation, gesturing and laughing. The second was that they were sharing a
nargileh
, passing the mouthpiece back and forth between them. Arran felt a slight pang.
He
was the one who was going to introduce Ben to the water pipe, not some stranger. Seeing them suddenly so intimate angered him, and he blurted out his news without thinking.

‘That was Nell, as I said,’ he told Ben, interrupting him mid-sentence. ‘Skye’s just had the baby. It’s a girl, Molly. Skye’s a mother now,’ he added unnecessarily.

Ben’s face closed down, and the look he shot Arran was one of almost pure hatred. ‘Great. Fabulous. Thanks for letting me know, Uncle,’ he muttered, then picked up the mouthpiece of the
nargileh
and inhaled deeply, eyes on Arran as if daring him to stop him.

‘You’re an uncle? Congratulations!’ said the blond man. He held out his hand. ‘I’m John. That’s wonderful. First time?’ He paused, glancing between the two of them. ‘So you’re both uncles, then. Is that right?’ He looked up at Arran. ‘Ben told me you were brothers.’

Ben said nothing, his mouth still on the
nargileh
. Arran felt his heart contract for the second time that evening. Neither of them had said much about the brother thing. It was still too early, too raw. They had different surnames of course, and whenever he’d needed to introduce Ben on the trip he had simply said he was a friend and colleague. Now, though, the first time he’d been asked, Ben had claimed Arran as blood.

‘We are,’ Arran mumbled to John. ‘But it’s complicated.’

‘Two new uncles in one night! That calls for a celebration,’ John exclaimed, oblivious. He waved for a waiter and ordered a bottle of wine. ‘Make it two,’ he called out as the man left. It occurred to Arran that John was slightly drunk. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered Arran. ‘Is this your first time? I’ve got three nephews. Love kids. It’d be great to have a niece to complete the set.’

Arran reluctantly did as he was told. His meal was where he’d left it, but it had cooled and congealed, and was now completely unappetising. He pushed it away. Ben wouldn’t look at him. John reached across the table for the pipe, breathed it in briefly, then offered it to Arran.

‘Better not,’ Arran said. ‘I’ve got hep B.’

‘It’s not
that
infectious,’ John said, still holding out the hose.

Arran waved it away. ‘I have no idea, but I’m not supposed to share toothbrushes or razors, so . . .’

Ben looked up. ‘You never told me that.’

‘I’ve never needed to,’ Arran snapped. ‘I don’t even think about it half the time. It’s under control. I’ve had it for years. My druggy days. Probably from a bad needle somewhere along the line.’

If he had hoped to shock or impress John he’d failed. ‘You were bloody lucky it wasn’t something worse,’ the man laughed. ‘Me too. No exchanges back then, huh? Not sure I’d have been bothered going to one even if there were.’

Ben took the mouthpiece from him and sucked on it greedily.

‘Ben told me why you’re here,’ John continued. ‘Good for you. It’s a big ask, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ He pulled a packet of hand-rolled cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered one to Arran, who refused. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, lighting up, and nodded, smiling, across the table at Ben. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to get that back in a hurry.’ Arran shook his head. Despite himself, he was warming to John, and it didn’t look as if Ben was going to talk to him again for a while.

‘What about you?’ he asked. John’s smoke was thick and tarry. Arran inhaled surreptitously.

‘Travel writer.’ John gestured to his notes and guidebooks. ‘Freelance, but I’m updating the Lonely Planet. Did their first one on Syria three years ago. Not sure there’ll be much use for it, to be honest. Things are changing here, have you noticed? There’s something brewing . . .’ His words trailed away.

‘You’re English though?’

‘By birth, but my parents moved to Australia when I was twelve. Melbourne. Luckily for me, really. Can’t imagine I would have got a job like this otherwise.’

‘We’re from Melbourne too!’ Arran exclaimed, forgetting to play it cool.

The wine arrived and was poured before John could respond. Ben put down the
nargileh
and picked up his glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said darkly, then drained it in one swallow.

‘To uncles,’ John toasted.

‘To all our wonderful blood relatives,’ Ben countered, and poured himself another glass.

Three hours later, John had to help Arran get Ben back to their hotel. Arran was grateful for his assistance—he hadn’t realised it was so late, or that once Ben started vomiting none of the taxis would stop for them. He could hardly blame them, he supposed, but it was still a bloody long walk to the new city with Ben stumbling and heaving between the two of them. It was his own fault, Arran told himself. Once Ben had set out on his mission to obliterate himself Arran should have got them out straightaway, but John was talking and asking him questions . . . John wasn’t such a smart arse after all, Arran reflected. He was actually pretty interesting, and it had been good of him to pay for all that wine even though Ben had drunk most of it.

‘This is it?’ John panted. Ben sat down on the steps of their small hotel, his head in his hands, groaning softly to himself. He was going to feel like shit in the morning.

‘Yep.’ Arran paused for a moment to get his breath back, then grabbed Ben beneath the armpits, which were dank with sweat. ‘Up you come, mate,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’

But Ben simply slumped down further on the marble stairs, his head lolling back. Without being asked, John moved around and took hold of his feet, then nodded at Arran for them to lift together. They hauled Ben up the stairs and to their room, which held two double beds side by side.

‘I need another drink after that,’ said John, wiping a forearm across his face. Ben lay on his bed, face against the pillow, eyes closed and shoes still on. ‘Coming? There’ll be a bar around here somewhere.’

As Arran bent to drape a sheet over him, Ben stirred. ‘Stay here, Arran,’ he slurred. ‘Don’t you leave me too.’

Arran glanced across at John, disappointed. ‘Maybe tomorrow?’ he suggested. There was still so much he wanted to ask John—about Syria, yes, but about himself too. How old he was, for a start. He looked as if he was in his mid-thirties, but you could never tell with the Brits. That fair skin aged quickly. Did he have a partner? Where did he live? And children, Arran found himself wondering. John loved his nephews, but did he want kids of his own?

‘Tomorrow’s no good,’ John said, then looked at him quizzically, as if weighing something up. ‘But tonight still is. Give me your key. I’ll go get us a bottle and bring it back here.’ A strange sense of relief washed through Arran, and without stopping to examine it he handed the key to John.

The next morning Arran was awoken by something chirping nearby. He lay there for a few seconds, sleep-heavy and disoriented. The sun was well up outside. What time was it? He rolled over to look for his watch and found John asleep next to him, though on top of the covers. Arran smiled, then winced. His lips were bruised, he realised, bruised and slightly swollen. He brought his fingers up to feel them, touching them gently to rekindle the pain, then heard the electronic cheep again. My phone, he thought. It was in his jeans, puddled next to the bed. He fished it out and brought up his messages, suddenly frightened that it might be bad news about Skye. But it wasn’t.

I live with Habib
, the message read
. He would like 2 talk 2 u. Pls call.

Arran scrambled out of bed and rushed to wake Ben.

27

Nell snapped on the studio light and pulled the dust cloth to the floor. The picture thrilled her again, as it did each time she saw it. She’d nailed it. For once she’d got it right.

‘Ta dah!’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

Arran’s expression was doubtful, though he quickly rearranged his features into something more neutral. ‘It’s striking . . .’ he began, but then gave up. ‘I don’t understand art, Nell. You know that. What is it?’

‘It’s Charlie’s mind, just before he died. That’s what I’ve called it:
Charlie’s Mind
. I thought about
Dementia
, but that was too stark. Impersonal. This is actually him. The illness is different for everyone.’

Nell stepped back to get a better view of the painting. The canvas was predominantly deep crimson, but with black leaching through at the edges, the darker patches gradually amassing into a central vortex. Between the two extremes lurked several smaller images: a ladle, a heart, a child, and a crotchet, its stem at a slant, as if being sucked into the void. Charlie’s totems, Nell thought. The things that had made him him.

‘Yeah, it’s good,’ Arran said unconvincingly. ‘You should have shown Skye.’

Nell stooped to retrieve the dust cloth and threw it back over the picture. She’d wanted to but hadn’t had a chance. When they’d arrived that evening for dinner Molly had been fretful, and it seemed that when Skye wasn’t nursing she was walking her up and down, trying to stop her crying. Hamish had taken over while Skye bolted her dinner, but that hardly seemed like the moment for Nell to grab her daughter by the hand and lead her out to the shed.

‘Skye was busy,’ she said simply.

Arran grunted. ‘God, I’ll say. And what about all that stuff they brought? When they arrived I thought they must be moving in with you, not just coming for dinner. I’d never leave home if it was always that much bloody effort.’

Nell laughed. ‘You do, because after a while you start to go mad staring at the walls of your own house. Plus somebody else was cooking the meal. That’s a big deal when everyone’s tired.’

Charlie had always cooked, she remembered. She’d been so grateful for that. He couldn’t breastfeed, of course, and he was no help with nappies or baths, but she’d never had to worry about dinner. After days spent seemingly anchored to the couch with one baby tugging at her nipple and the other one wailing while it waited its turn, even just working out what to cook would have broken her.

‘Molly’s looking good though, isn’t she?’ she continued, shutting the studio door behind her. ‘She’s lost that skinned rat look.’

‘Skye too,’ Arran agreed. ‘She’s all better now?’

‘I believe so. Hamish said her last kidney function test was normal. Or almost back to normal anyway, thank goodness. That was all so frightening. But it made me think . . .’ She paused. They were standing on the path between the shed and the house. Nell could see her breath. It was almost winter. Maybe there would be a frost tonight. ‘It made me think that I want to see Ben,’ she went on in a rush.

Arran snorted. ‘Shit. What’s brought that on?’

‘Lots of things. Skye nearly dying. Molly. Those photos you showed me from your trip.’ She hesitated. ‘Ben’s been on my mind ever since he and Skye broke up,’ she admitted. ‘I kept thinking that we’d see him again, hear from him. I never thought he’d just disappear like that . . .’ She wrapped her arms around herself to suppress a shiver. Those terrible months. Skye’s collapse, Skye in hospital, then shuffling around the house like a sleepwalker, alert only when the phone rang.

‘What did you expect—that he was still going to turn up for dinner that week?’ Arran reached into his top pocket for his cigarettes.

Nell felt a flash of anger, as much at his question as at the fact that he’d started smoking again. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she snapped as he lit up and calmly inhaled. ‘Of course not. They couldn’t be together, I know that. They
shouldn’t
be together.’ They were brother and sister, it was all wrong—hadn’t she been the first to point that out to Skye? Their relationship was impossible, and if they’d remained lovers she would have been appalled. The fact that they hadn’t should have pleased her, brought her relief, but instead as she watched Skye mourn she’d just felt sad, sorry for both of them, Ben and Skye, and what they’d lost. What they’d all lost. She tried to explain herself. ‘It’s just that I can’t help feeling that Ben’s one of us—isn’t he? Technically, anyway. I mean, I know he didn’t grow up in our family, but he’s still part of it. How can we just let that go?’

Arran turned to her, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the night air. She suddenly remembered how he and Skye used to do that on chilly mornings on their way to school, pretending that unlit twigs were cigarettes, giggly and high at their own sophistication.